


Happy Home Designer

by audreycritter



Series: Cor Et Cerebrum [7]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Platonic Cuddling, it's the missing spleen except it's not because it's missing, mild doctoring, single-player video games treated like multi-player adventures, tw: minor unnamed illness, tw: past parental issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 12:42:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19928233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: Tim hangs out with Dev, talks about what he does at WE, and then has an emotional conversation with Bruce about doing things alone.Oh, and he's sick.





	Happy Home Designer

**Author's Note:**

> title from an animal crossing game.

Tim Drake-Wayne hung his head off the couch, and draped his feet over the back. He watched the TV upside down as the little animated character hurried along the path. With a fumbling hand, he patted the coffee table for the bag of chips, and dragged it closer to him when the plastic crinkled under his fingertips.

“If you sodding choke, I’m going to save you, and then I’m going to bloody shout at you until your ears bleed,” Dev warned without looking away from the screen. He tapped a button repeatedly.

Tim popped a chip in his mouth and chewed, and swallowed against gravity. “Hm. Okay. I’ll take that risk. Dev. The shop opens at eight in the morning. Button mashing doesn’t make it eight in the morning any sooner.”

“Eat your sodding crisps. Maybe I’m trying to break in.”

“I don’t think that’s an option in Animal Crossing.” Tim shoved more chips into his mouth and craned his neck to look across the coffee table for a drink. He thought he’d brought one into the den, but now he wasn’t sure.

“I thought you hated this game,” Dev retorted. “How would you sodding know.”

“I do hate this game. It feels like work. But Cass made me watch her play it so I could read all the on-screen text when she was feeling lazy.” Tim swung his legs around and misjudged the space he had and how slippery the couch was, and fumbled backward and landed an awkward somersault against the coffee table before sitting upright. His ears were throwing his balance off.

Dev paused the game and gave him a look.

“What,” Tim said, frowning. “It’s my night off. I don’t have to be graceful all the time.”

“Cass. You bloody read for Cass after she had a _brain bleed_. I’d hardly call that lazy.”

“Yeah, well, it’s Cass,” Tim said, shrugging. “She’s, you know. Cass. It was a few days later, anyway. She was just mad I wouldn’t answer some weird quiz questions in the issue of Cosmo that Steph left for her when we were eating lunch.”

“You could have answered the sodding questions,” Dev said.

“You wanna answer, ‘What’s your flirting type?’ in front of Bruce? With Cass nearby? Be my guest. I tried to answer one and you know what she said? I said, A, I analyze and go for an honest compliment, and Cass just said ‘No,’ and circled another answer for me. Bruce _laughed_ , Dev. In front of Damian. So, yes, I stopped doing the dumb quiz, and yes, I think she was being lazy when she wanted me to read all the text in Animal Crossing. Or she was punishing me.”

“Or she was sodding shattered and had a headache and wanted her brother nearby,” Dev said.

“You _always_ take her side,” Tim whined. He reached over the table and took the mug of tea that was definitely Dev’s, and not his, and sipped it. It had cooled down enough that the second drink was more of a gulp. “God, I’m so thirsty. Why did I leave my almond milk in the kitchen.”

Dev paused the game again, and looked at the spot where his tea had been sitting, and then at Tim, clutching the mug. “This is why I take sides, you bloody wanker. I’d just made that.”

“It’s cold,” Tim lied. It was lukewarm. “Finish breaking into the flower shop already.”

Tim left the chip bag and the empty mug on the table and shoved his heels into the floor to push himself back onto the couch. He slumped back, his shoulder bumping Dev’s, and sighed.

His shoulder was slightly bumped in return. “You alright, then, mate?”

“Tired,” Tim said. “Feel weird.”

“You ought. That tea had a sedative in it, because you’ve not been sleeping.”

“You drugged your tea for me?” Tim blinked at the screen, trying to summon the right amount of fury. “Dev. That’s _sneaky_. I’m proud of you. How much did you drink by accident when you forgot?”

“Only an ounce or two,” Dev said.

“You’re lying.” Tim narrowed his eyes and prodded Dev in the shoulder, hard, with one finger. “You didn’t drug it at all.”

“The placebo effect worked for all of sixty sodding seconds. You are your own bloody undoing, but you do need sleep, Timothy.”

“I do,” Tim agreed, slumping down more. He tucked his chin against his chest and exhaled. “Long week.”

“What is it you do, anyway?” Dev asked. He was button mashing again, while the animated character stood in front of a creek or river. He gave up and wandered away, toward a small group of houses. “At work, I mean. You said this game feels like work. This is the opposite of work for me. This is what I sodding do when work’s gone wrong.”

“Bad day?” Tim asked, lifting his chin to look up. His brow furrowed in concern.

“Eh,” Dev said. “Surgery could have gone better. The usual. It’s alright, mate. I’ve asked you a question.”

“Work,” Tim said. “You really don’t know? What do you think I do?”

“I’ve been ‘round your office, yeah? I’ve some vague idea you do something with research, or…company things.”

“Company things.” Tim echoed. “Dev. Are you five. Do you know how companies work.”

“I know how brains work,” Dev said. “I’ve left companies to others.”

“Well,” Tim said. “Well, well, well. My job is extremely important. Very important. I play a vital role in the company. I have ever since we thought Bruce was dead and Lucius wanted me involved. I do…things.”

“Timothy, mate, I’m sodding fond of you, and that’s why I’m honest with you when I can be: it’s beginning to sound like you have rather the same grasp of company workings as I do.” Dev was wandering in circles on the screen, now, and Tim watched intently for a moment.

“I do tech work,” he said.

“Software?” Dev asked.

“No,” Tim said. He rubbed his upper arm, where there was a healing bruise. “Not quite.”

“You’re bloody stalling. Have you been off designing weapons? Something secret?”

“I get coffee,” Tim said. “I help Lucius make his presentation slides. I convert files to .pdfs and sometimes if the secretaries are busy I’ll help type up emails. Sometimes, I play solitaire or Pinball. I make sure we have the right cords for meetings with screen share.”

The game paused.

“Timothy.”

“Hmm?” Tim fiddled with the hem of his shirt.

“Are you telling me you’re a professional intern?” Dev raised an eyebrow.

“No, not really. The interns have like, career tracks? I just do…odds and ends. I’m more of a professional slacker, really.” Tim tipped his head against Dev’s shoulder and reached for the controller. He jostled his hand impatiently and Dev handed it over. “I like it, okay? I know it’s not me, like, reaching my potential or whatever the fudge you want to call it, but if I wanted to do something else I could. It feels busy, and useful, but it’s not a lot of pressure. I _like_ that right now. It’s nice to feel like I’m working _and_ getting a break.”

Tim was aware he was sounding more and more defensive, but he couldn’t stop himself, until Dev patted his head.

“Mate. It’s alright. That’s not a bad thing to want, yeah?”

“I get to see Bruce almost every day,” Tim added, quietly. “I like that part, too. Sometimes we get to eat lunch in his office.”

“You’re only a lowly intern and you’ve perks like eating with the boss,” Dev said. “That sounds like a fairly good reason to like your work. You’re alright, Timothy.”

“Ugh,” Tim complained. “Why do you do this. I think you’re going to sympathize and you mock me, and then I’m ready for you to mock me and you get all weird and understanding and nice. Now is probably the right time to tell you I think I’m coming down with something.”

“The bloody hell,” Dev exhaled. “Bed. Off to bed with you. You’ve not a fever, I’m guessing? Sodding spleens. I’ll bring meds ‘round, and fluids.”

“Dev,” Tim whined, scrunching down into the couch and pressing his head more tightly against Dev’s arm. “I’m _comfortable_. You’re not my dad!”

“Wayne!” Dev bellowed so loudly Tim winced at the ache in his ears.

“Alright, alright,” Tim grumbled, tossing the controller on the table. He sat up and waited to be less dizzy. “I’m going. You’re the worst tattletale.”

Bruce materialized in the doorway behind them, his fists at his sides. His stance was relaxed but anyone who knew him well enough would know how false that was. Tim and Dev both craned their necks to see him.

“What’s wrong.” The words sounded like a fire poker scraping over dying coals.

“Nothing!” Tim threw his arms in the air. “I don’t feel good and Dev is freaking out.”

“You don’t feel good,” Bruce repeated. He stepped forward into the room and crossed the distance between them with a few strides, so he was at the back of the couch feeling Tim’s forehead with his wrist. Tim didn’t move. “For how long.”

“Freaking. Out. Overreacting,” Tim said. “It’s probably nothing. Just a few days. You’re supposed to be yelling at Dev for raising false alarms. You grounded Damian last week for something like this.”

“I don’t ground Dev,” Bruce said evenly.

“Sodding hell you don’t. I’m a grown man,” Dev interjected.

“That’s Alfred’s job,” Bruce added. “Bed, Tim.”

“Hullo, what,” Dev exclaimed, when Tim flopped back with crossed arms and a dramatic groan. Dev looked at Bruce. “I’m not sorry I shouted. This one needs bullied into rest almost as much as you do. But whatever he’s come down with, it’s likely not serious.”

“Hn,” Bruce said.

Tim scrunched down further.

“Operative is demonstrating signs that his system is compromised. He appears too weak to walk,” Bruce said, his voice utterly calm and serious.

“No, Bruce,” Tim objected, scrambling to sit forward.

“Manual human transport is the most efficient option,” Bruce said, and Tim was snagged around the waist from behind and hauled into the air.

He could have struggled and made it a real fight, he was good enough at escape techniques, but he was too tired. He went limp as deadweight instead, but it didn’t discourage Bruce, because Bruce was freakishly strong. Tim was thrown over Bruce’s shoulder in a fireman carry.

“I’m never telling you I’m sick again,” Tim muttered balefully. It was getting harder to sound angry when Bruce was also freakishly comfortable, from almost any angle.

“You’re bloody welcome,” Dev called as Tim was carried from the room. “I’ll come up for blood tests and meds after I save and quit.”

“I hope your file is corrupted,” Tim shouted back. He fell quiet as Bruce climbed the stairs, until the door to his room was being pushed open. Bruce set him down on the edge of the bed, and went to a drawer to hunt for pajamas.

“Half of these are Dick’s,” Bruce said. “They don’t even fit you.”

“They’re comfortable,” Tim scowled, sitting boneless on the edge of the mattress. “Cass steals all my stuff.”

“Hn,” Bruce said, picking up a green shirt.

“No, not that one,” Tim gestured limply with his hand. “It’s, uh, I don’t like it. The purple one.”

“There is no purple one,” Bruce said, staring into the drawer.

“It must be at my place,” Tim said. “The green one’s fine.”

Bruce brought it and a pair of soft flannel pajama pants over and tossed them on the bed. He motioned for Tim to lift his arms and Tim peeled his shirt off instead.

“I can do it,” he said, pulling the other shirt on over his head. He got stuck for a moment and had to tug it. “I’m okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“It’s my job to worry,” Bruce said. “It’s your job to be my kid.”

“I don’t know if I’m good at that,” Tim said bluntly. “It’s not like I plan to do stuff on my own. It just happens.”

“I know,” Bruce said, pressing a kiss to the top of Tim’s head when he let his shoulders sag. “Then we do it again until your body learns the pattern. Just like training.”

Tim exhaled and leaned forward and Bruce caught him, before he slipped off the bed. His forehead landed with a soft, soundless thud against Bruce’s stomach. Bruce ruffled his hair.

“I’m too tired for pants,” Tim complained. “Can I just sleep.”

“Mhmm,” Bruce said. He reached over him and tugged the covers back. “Come on, sport. Lie down. Are those pigeons on your shirt? Why don’t you like pigeons.”

“Of course you’d like pigeons,” Tim said, climbing under the blankets and tugging them up to his chin. “I don’t mind them. Dev’s afraid of them, so I don’t usually wear it if he’s around.”

Bruce closed his eyes and for a moment his face was entirely devoid of expression. Then, he looked vaguely sad, the way he did sometimes looking at crime scenes when all Tim had to read was his jaw.

“Why,” Bruce said flatly, “is Dev afraid of pigeons.”

“I dunno. You try getting a straight answer from him. I think it has something to do with a bagel?” Tim yawned and Bruce sat on the edge of the bed, looking awkward and uncertain.

“You know,” he said, slowly. “You know that I…”

Tim blinked at him, something tight and burning twisted in his stomach.

“You loved Jack,” Bruce said, quietly, changing direction.

“Yes,” Tim said.

“That’s fine,” Bruce said. “That’s…it’s normal.”

“Thank you?” Tim said. He could blame the sudden lump in his throat on feeling sick, but maybe not the anger he had to choke down. He didn’t know where Bruce was going with this and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

Bruce’s hands were clasped together and he was still as stone.

“I’m sorry,” he said, after a long moment. “It’s natural to love your parents, but I’m sorry I didn’t step in, sooner. It shouldn’t be hard for you to know how to be a son. You should have gotten that a long time ago. I don’t know what it would have changed— maybe you would have hated me then, if I’d taken you from him.”

“I don’t know,” Tim said, the anger dissolving into something too complicated and tangled for him to name at the moment. It didn’t feel much better. “I’m sorry, Bruce, I’m sorry I’m not good at this, and that you think it’s your fault.”

“Tim,” Bruce said, evenly. “The point is, it isn’t your fault. It never has been. I’m not angry with you, if it’s hard for you. We can go as many times as you need.”

Those were words from the mats, when Tim spent afternoons determined to master things that seemed so easy for everyone else, running them again and again. The funny thing was, he didn’t think of those early days as miserable, because Bruce had been there— Bruce who was patient and encouraging even while he was strict and demanded excellence.

 _We can go as many times as you need. You’re making progress,_ he’d say, when Tim’s frustration cracked through, and somehow that was enough.

Jack had given up on catch once because Tim kept dropping or missing the ball, and then they never played catch again. The older Tim got, the more furious he was at the slow and seeping realization that Jack had wanted to be a dad like his life had been a commercial for fatherhood— he wanted the ideal, the scrapbook images. Playing catch. The son who was a football star. The camping trip with grilled hot dogs. The suits and hand on the shoulder, the graduation snapshot.

The problem was, for whatever reason, he hadn’t wanted to do any of the work to get there. He hadn’t wanted to teach Tim how to catch, he hadn’t wanted to come to school art galleries. Tim had pitched the tent alone, and Jack had burnt the hot dogs and yelled and packed everything up to go home.

 _“We’ll make do, huh,”_ he’d said, plastering a smile over his simmering bad mood, when they’d eaten dry burgers at a Denny’s instead. “ _We’ll laugh about this trip, someday.”_

He had tried, near the end. Tim knew he’d tried harder then. He wasn’t sure which felt more unfair: that Jack had died then, when he was finally trying, or that Jack hadn’t thought it was worth trying until Tim was sixteen.

It was a small and bitter consolation that he’d tried, at least. He still felt like he had spent most of that time teaching Jack to parent as much as Jack had parented. But at least he was _listening_.

Tim was glad his face was already buried in a pillow. A warm, steady hand rubbed his back and Tim sniffed, hard.

“M’sorry,” Tim mumbled. “It’s just because I’m sick.”

“Tim, sweetheart,” Bruce said.

Bruce stretched out beside him and offered an arm and Tim rolled into him, taking blankets with him, and buried his face in shoulder instead of pillow.

“Am I too old for this,” he asked, trying to sound less like he was crying. He failed, spectacularly, even to his own ears.

“Only if you feel uncomfortable,” Bruce said. “You get to make up for time if you want. You aren’t being childish.”

“Okay,” Tim croaked. “Don’t let go.”

“I’m not,” Bruce said. “I’m right here. Shh. Go to sleep, Tim.”

“How did you know,” Tim asked, when he felt like he could catch his breath. He inhaled the smell of Bruce’s soap and sweat and a faint woodsy musk. He’d been outside, then, earlier. “That I was upset about…stuff. I didn’t say _anything_. Not to anyone.”

“I was paying attention,” Bruce said gently. His fingers rubbed circles between Tim’s shoulder blades. “Of course I’m going to notice. You’re my kid.”

Tim hummed and let the heaviness dragging at his eyelids start to win. Right before he slipped under, he managed to murmur, “And you’re a detective?”

“Damn straight,” Bruce said, and Tim could hear the smile that wouldn’t make it to Bruce’s face.

He snorted a thick laugh against Bruce’s chest and was out.


End file.
